


Heal

by Skylark



Series: HSWC 2014 [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bruises, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meteorstuck, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dumbass,” you mumble. “You should know when to call it.”</p><p>“Speak for yourself,” Karkat spits, and okay, maybe he has a point.</p><p><a href="http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/18819.html?thread=3762819#cmt3762819">Prompt:</a> <i>"Remember when Dave and Karkat sparred for the first time and it was an utter disaster?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughablyunimportant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/gifts).



You must be more out of shape than you realized. That's the thought that keeps coming back to you as you slouch against the wall, bruised and bleeding from a dozen places.

Well, it's not like you've had a lot of time to practice your bladework. You've been too busy dying recently. Then: maybe if you practiced more, you wouldn't keep dying so much. Then: fuck that, you're a _god_ now, since when do gods have to practice shit.

You think the game is screwing you over. Then you think, well, that's nothing new.

Karkat isn't in much better shape than you, though by the end of the strife—when you realized how he was starting to stumble, how his timing was starting to stammer and slow—you started pulling your attacks. He's not bleeding anywhere you can see, but he wears dark colors and long sleeves and the bruisy splotches on his skin look awful all the same. He's sitting against the wall beside you, hunched forward with his weight resting on one propped up knee like he's trying to hide how hard he's breathing.

“Dumbass,” you mumble. “You should know when to call it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Karkat spits, and okay, maybe he has a point.

Eventually you reach for your sylladex and drag out gauze, antiseptic, cold and hot packs. You haven't pulled them out since....well. He always insisted you carried them on you. _A Strider's ready for anything._

Well, you are; and you're ready for this, too. You slide down the wall so that you're beside him and offer him a chemical cold pack. He stares at it like it's poison.

“Come on, man, don't tell me you don't know how to patch yourself up.”

He looks at you like you're the word's biggest idiot. “You humans are fragile as fuck and so I shouldn't be surprised that you don't know this—but I am! Teaches me to constantly overestimate your sorry race—but this is nothing to a troll. You barely even injured me. I'll be fine.”

You give him a slow once-over and raise an eyebrow, and his eyes cast to the side. “Shut up,” he snaps. “Anyway, you should be worrying about yourself first. Do you even know what you look like right now? Looking at you makes _me_ hurt.”

“Yeah, well, whose fault is that,” you reply, and he has the decency to look embarrassed for a moment.

You sigh as your fingers feel for the plastic tube inside the cold pack and snap it. The packet starts to chill in your hand, and you shake it to speed up the process. The bruise on his cheek is the worst, probably; it's swelling up something fierce. You press the pack to his face and listen to him yelp. “Hold it there,” you say. “Jesus, it's like you've never seen an ice pack before.” He gives you a look, and now you're the one who glances down.

Once you're certain he's holding it steady, you turn to your own injuries. He sits quietly next to you, listening to the humming of the meteor's air vents and your slight intakes of breath as you press the stinging antiseptic to your scrapes and cuts. After you're done cleaning yourself up, you lean back against the wall and stare into space. You're acutely aware of his free hand inches from your own, both resting on the concrete floor between you, but you can't muster enough energy to move away. After all, it's not like he's going to grab you or something. You already strifed, so there's no reason for further physical contact. That's how it works, right?

You think about long, breathless afternoons baking on the rooftop in the Houston heat, and your lips purse.

“So,” you say after a while. “Same time tomorrow?”

He doesn't look at you, but you can see him nod out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah.”


End file.
